


Done to Death

by Ferrenbach



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, All phases, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Gen, Language, Recreational Drug Use, Smoking, Warnings May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:30:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 19,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferrenbach/pseuds/Ferrenbach
Summary: A writing exercise in which, when I feel like it, I will fire up TV Tropes, hit the random button, and write a short scene based on what comes up. It might be a representation of the trope, refer to the trope, or only be inspired by the trope. There are no hard and fast rules.Additional Notes and Warnings:This work is unrated as each chapter is a complete scene based on one trope and the rating will vary (although it is unlikely to surpass "T"). Gorillaz being what it is, posted warnings are general expectations.Additional notes and warnings will be posted at the beginning of each chapter.





	1. Four More Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase 1, referenced drug use, mild language

“That was a right bloody mess.”

Murdoc tried to shake a cigarette out of his pack, realized he was out, and tossed the empty package over his shoulder for the hotel staff to deal with. A curl of cellophane joined it as Murdoc opened a new one.

“I thought it was a’right,” 2-D said, sleepy-eyed and picking through a bowl of allsorts, looking for one that didn’t taste so much of liquorice.

“That’s ‘cause you’ve no shame,” Murdoc told him. “I could pull your trousers down and you wouldn’t notice.” He paused, eyebrows raised as he considered this. “Take a note, Russel. We’re pulling 2-D’s trousers down during the next show.”

Russel sighed. “We’re not pulling D’s trousers down.”

“At least I never fell off the stage,” 2-D muttered.

Murdoc sniffed. “I didn’t fall, I was crowd surfing.”

“Well, someone ought to’ve told the crowd then.”

“Del thinks we should standardize ‘Clint Eastwood’,” Russel broke in before Murdoc could find something to throw at 2-D’s head. “He says he can’t tell if Phi Life’s on stage or D’s just running late.”

“Look, the length of the intro depends on how high 2-D is, all right?” Murdoc said. “It’s an added feature. A little mystery for our fans.”

“What’s a mystery?” 2-D said, making a face and throwing another allsorts into the trash.

“How high you are.”

“I thought we were on the sixth floor…”

“Not the height of the building you stupid git,” Murdoc snapped. “High as in… you know… high.”

“Hello!” Noodle chirped, exiting the bathroom in pyjamas. She had missed the conversation, but was always pleased to join in.

“Hi!” 2-D replied grinning at her as Murdoc rolled his eyes. “You did good today, luv.”

“Yes!” she said, and then scrunched up her face as if deciding how to best convey her next statement. Eventually she settled on, “Del was funny.”

“Del got confused,” Russel told her. “He didn’t know we had guests tonight. Hell, I didn’t know until we were on stage and didn’t have time to tell him. He thinks we should always open ‘Clint Eastwood’ the same way.”

Noodle nodded solemnly and then rattled off several sentences in Japanese, much to the confusion of all, except 2-D, who had discovered some stale sherbet lemons in the bottom of the allsorts bowl and was intent on mining them.

“Del says Noodle agrees to a standardization of the intro and suggests a variation of the first few bars as a signal to him when other guest artists are around in case of surprises,” Russel relayed.

“How does the bloody ghost know what she’s saying and we don’t?” Murdoc demanded.

Russel shrugged. “Del says things are just different when you’re dead.”

“Everything goes black and white and kind of wobbly,” 2-D told them around a mouthful of sherbet lemon. He pressed his fingers together and then drew them apart slowly, fascinated by the way the sticky residue tugged at his skin. “I saw it in a movie.”

“Nice to have you with us, Dents,” Murdoc said. “Now stuff a sock in it.”

“I need a sock for my sock. They’ve got holes.”

“Just standardize the intro,” Russel said before Murdoc could start a fight. “I’ll sort out some kind of drum signal that we can use as a lead in whenever we’re not doing the usual. Noodle can give me a hand. Right, Noodle?”

“Right!” Noodle told him climbing onto the bed to flump down beside him.

“So we’re agreed?” Russel prompted.

“Sounds good to me,” 2-D said with no indication he knew what he was agreeing to.

“Fine,” Murdoc threw in. “I can always kick 2-D’s off the stage if he misses his cue…”


	2. Gun Porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Three. Guns and the implied threat of violence.

“Now this one’s a beauty.”

2-D nodded, pretending he understood everything Murdoc was saying. He had learned how to use a basic revolver, once upon a time, because he felt it was the sort of thing a man should know how to do. It had been promptly removed from him after his training was complete with the advisory that he was never to pick up anything of the sort ever again. Something about eyesight, distraction, and accidents, he thought, although he couldn’t quite remember. He still liked to handle them now and then, even if they were unloaded or he had to settle for props.

Apart from that, he had never really had any interest in guns. They seemed awfully dangerous. But then so did Murdoc and 2-D was acutely aware that only one of them was seated beside him at the moment.

“We could never get one of these in back home,” Murdoc said. “Well, we _could_ , but why faff about under the table when you can have everything out in the great wide open?”

He ran his finger along the smooth barrel, checked the mechanisms, and made sure they were well oiled. Then he mounted the gun, focusing intently on the task at hand.

2-D said nothing to this, pleased to be ignored. The less of Murdoc’s attention he drew, the better.

He tried to look as interested as possible while Murdoc rattled off a number of technical specifications for the array of firearms he had at hand, lovingly stroking them as he described every millimetre of their length, the feel of their trigger, the devastating effects of their ammunition. Some he mounted, some he did not, but not a one passed by without a passionate ode to their form and function.

2-D did not think the heavy emphasis on their lethality was for him, but, having been knocked out and awakened on a floating island of garbage in the middle of the ocean, he was not about to put it past Murdoc to drive home the point of his captivity. Not only did he have nowhere to go, but he could be picked off at a distance if he made the attempt.

“You don’t seem impressed,” Murdoc reproached him, calling him back from his reverie. 2-D mentally kicked himself for allowing his mind and attention to wander.

“I am,” he assured his captor. “I’s just… you know so much more about guns than I do. I’s… a lot for me to… to take in, you know?”

“True,” Murdoc allowed, never one to pass up the chance to feel superior. “I do suppose I’ve dumped quite a lot on you today. You’ll need some time to sort it out, I imagine. In fact,” he stressed, his grin a trap, “if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“I dun think so,” 2-D said, picking at his fingers.

“None at all?”

“Oh, well… Maybe one,” 2-D admitted, finally daring to really look at the casing that housed Murdoc’s collection. “D’you think they’re really something you ought to give to little girls?”

“They probably ought to learn as soon as they’re able,” Murdoc told him, “but the law frowns upon such things. That’s the advantage of being out in the middle of the ocean. You can be properly armed regardless of colour, culture, or creed, even if you’re only a few days old. Of course, being filled with electronics does help.”

“Ah,” 2-D said, for lack of anything better to say, and watched as Murdoc stowed and sealed his armoury into the slim, mechanical body of something that looked, to a terrifying degree, rather like Noodle.

“And, well… why be satisfied with a guitar player when you can also have a body _guard_?” Murdoc said, his eyes gleaming with malice as glanced sideways at 2-D. He gave his walking armoury an almost affectionate pat.

And then he switched her on.


	3. That's What She Said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Two. Rated "T" for sexual innuendo (in front of a teenager, who could probably do better if they'd let her).

“We need a little more lumber.”

“I got some lumber for you,” Murdoc leered, miming a grab at his crotch.

“You know, you’re the last thing I need today,” Russel told him.

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly what she said,” Murdoc replied.

Russel sighed.

“I’s true!” 2-D chimed in. “I was there! She called him a knob and he asked if she wanted to ride it.”

“Too true,” Murdoc agreed.

“Then she slapped him.”

“No need to get into details, Dents.”

“I don’t think I ought to hear any of this,” Noodle said even though, at fifteen, she secretly thought sex jokes the height of comedy.

“Well and good,” Russel said, “but we still need more wood if we’re gonna make a go of it.”

“As the actress said to the bishop,” Murdoc finished.

“I mean, the stage needs more structural support if it’s gonna hold all of us and our equipment,” Russel clarified. “I hate outdoor venues.”

“Unless you’re huntin’ rabbits,” 2-D said, lost in thought, as he bent down to examine the underside of the stage.

Murdoc nodded appreciatively.

“Nice one,” he said. “I admire a man who knows his way around a hole.”

“I’m killing both of you when we get out of here,” Russel informed them. “Can we get this done with so we can grab some lunch?”

“Why wood?” Noodle prompted. “Wouldn’t steel rods be better?”

“I’ve got a steel—“

“Shut-up,” Russel interjected before Murdoc could finish. “They might, generally speaking, but the venue would have to buy them whereas you can usually get chunks of wood at little to no cost. Outside the city, in this area, a lot of people still use wood stoves or fireplaces for localized heat. Get an un-chopped tree from a supplier, maybe cut into a few pieces… I mean, we’re just borrowing it, right? We can give it back after the show instead of wondering what to do with it.”

“Just make sure you ask before taking the wood,” Murdoc advised. “Never touch another man’s wood without his consent.”

“No means no,” Noodle agreed, unable to resist any longer. She was gratified when 2-D burst out laughing.

Russel forced himself into a state of zen calm.

“I’m going to kill all three of you,” he told them.

“Gonna give us a lickin’, Russ?” Murdoc taunted. “A pounding perhaps?”

“I’d rather be licked,” 2-D mused.

Noodle opened her mouth, but shut it again when Russel pointed an accusatory finger in her direction.

“I’ll take it from these assholes, but I don’t want to hear a comment out of you,” he said.

A great many terrible puns later, Russel was satisfied with proposed plans to better secure the stage. He nodded in satisfaction.

“A few properly cut logs should do it. They’ll slide in there nice and tight.”

Murdoc grinned. “That’s what she said.”

“I’ve never been so glad to finish up a task with you idiots,” Russel told them as they left the park and hit the street. “What do you guys wanna eat?”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when Russel mentally kicked himself for giving Murdoc and 2-D an opening. He braced himself for an echoing onslaught of “sausages”, “tacos”, and possibly “pigs in a poke”, but the dynamic duo was strangely quiet.

It was only then that he noticed he was standing in front of a ramen shop.

“I ain’t touching that one, mate,” Murdoc said.


	4. See the Invisible

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Gen. Russel and Noodle.

They were at it again, emerging thicker and more intrusive with every passing day.

Russel began to wonder if the house was a viable living space, in spite of everyone showing heightened inspiration and enthusiasm. Heightened inspiration and enthusiasm for grand ideas, at least. Personal creativity seemed to take a hit. As a result, they were inviting more and more guest artists to help create their newest album rather than provide content themselves.

Oh, they made their mark, sure enough, but it was not as ever-present as in previous endeavours. Russel would not change the direction of the album for the world – it had a coherent progression and he felt the message was both timely and important – but he would not have minded the band integrating a bit more fully with the sound of their collaborators, rather than directing mostly from the sidelines and adding their talents in tiny measures.

He was no less guilty of it than anyone else. He could do more to round out the percussion on several tracks, but seemed unable to stir himself at appropriate moments. Even fully aware of the problem, he was unable to combat it, so he could not let the blame settle too heavily on his bandmates.

No, the problem had to be with the house and those creeping tendrils that made their way through the walls and the floorboards, sucking energy, power, and life from everything they encountered. They could not be seen under most circumstances. It was only his affinity for the supernatural that allowed him to be aware of them at all and he suspected that even he only saw the most visible of them. The tip of the iceberg, as it were.

He had told the others about them, but no one quite believed him, except 2-D, who was unusually sensitive. But even 2-D was not entirely certain what to believe or why. He merely trusted Russel to know what he was talking about and adjusted his perceptions accordingly, noting when and where people behaved oddly or he, himself, felt unusually uncomfortable. He brought this information to Russel, unable to deal with the situation on his own.

He tried, Russel had to admit. 2-D did take up Russel’s solutions and repellents whenever he could manage it or Russel was unavailable, but without knowledge and the ability to see what he was fighting, it was a losing battle. Better, on the whole, that Russel should be informed of all incidents, even those 2-D felt he had managed. Better to be sure that someone who knew what was going on could check the hot spots now and then and keep an eye on suspicious activity.

The problem was that the hot spots had grown to cover the entire house, weaving through its very structure, mostly dormant until they weren’t, rising up to draw the life out of those living there.

And yet the band remained, loathe to leave.

“‘Mornin’, baby girl,” he said despite it being well past noon, as Noodle stumbled into the kitchen, eyelids heavy and hair mussy with sleep.

“Mmn,” she murmured back and rifled through the cupboards. She pulled out her favourite mug and stared into it as if it had betrayed her by not filling on the spot.

“Tea or coffee?” Russel asked her.

“‘fee,” she mumbled and held out the mug as he filled it. Spiking it with sugar, she collapsed in a chair at the table and took a drink.

Russel allowed the caffeine some time to do its magic before addressing her again.

“Rough night?” he said.

“Yeah,” she said once she had found her vocabulary. “I know I slept, but I don’t _feel_ like I slept. And I woke up from crazy dreams a couple of times.”

“We have nowhere to be until tonight. You can always go back to bed.”

“Uhn,” Noodle grunted. “That will only make it worse. I’d rather get up. Maybe I’ll go for a run or bin-dive for vinyl at the thrift shops or something.”

“I’d be up for that, if you want company,” Russel offered. “We can grab some lunch.”

“Sure,” Noodle said, perking up. “We haven’t been out together in a while. It’ll be fun! Let me finish this and grab a shower.”

“Sounds good,” Russel said and they chatted about inconsequential things until she finished her coffee and left to wash. While she was in the bathroom, Russel made a quick sweep of her bedroom, spritzing the baseboards with a saltwater solution wherever they emitted an otherworldly glow. When she emerged, he casually suggested a “linen spray” or sachet of rosemary and sage to “promote better sleep”.

“I’m not intensely into herbal therapy, but they do smell nice,” Noodle said. “I’d try it just for that.”

Fair enough, Russel thought, and good enough for his purposes. He promised to get something together for her when they returned. In the meantime, being away from the house would be enough to lift her mood. With luck, the outing and evening event would wear her out and let her sleep peacefully, guarded by his sachets and solutions.

He said nothing of this, merely joked with her as she decided which jacket she wanted to wear and cast a dark look at the faint glow emanating from the hall closet as they stepped outside into the sunlight.


	5. Imagine Spot

It’s a game they play.

It’s a little bit mean, but only a little. They never allow it to venture into the realms of the shameful, the embarrassing, or the fearful. They do not, but Murdoc would, which is why they’ve never told him about it.

The goal is to get the most expressive _quiet_ reaction out of 2-D as possible, using only his distraction and power of imagination. Tears are choice – the intense, silent kind that signal extreme emotion without making a production of it – but blushing is a close second. Russel is best at getting that blushy, lip-biting, leg-crossing look out of him and once he even excused himself to rush off to the bathroom.

This, she maintains, is because all boys are pigs, but Russel only laughs at her and calls her a sore loser.

2-D dosen’t know about it, of course. Or, if he does, he’s not aware that it’s a game and they are secretly keeping score. At least she doesn’t _think_ he does. Perhaps he’s completely aware and is amused by it, allowing them to think him clueless even as he plays along. Heaven knows he could use pleasant things to dream about once in a while.

Even so, she doubts he’s that aware of them. He trusts them too fully. And so, they are as careful as they can be, keeping the fantasies cheerful and bright. Happy, warm, loving, soft… the least they can do for an unknowing participant.

“Like those microfibre blankets,” she says. “A big one. Big enough to wrap someone as tall as 2-D from head to toe. Super-soft and cozy. Can you imagine it? Curling up in one of those in front of a fire on a really cold day? Or even in a patch of sunlight on a winter afternoon. Reading a book – or listening to one if you want your hands free – with a cup of your favourite tea. Maybe music instead of a book, something you can lose yourself in, although I prefer hearing the sounds around me. I like to just, you know… take in my environment.”

She hasn’t even finished her description and 2-D’s already off to the races, his features settling into a sappy, dreamy look as he rests his chin on one hand and stares, unseeing, into a far corner of the cafe. His mouth quirks into a restful smile. She supposes his vision includes a couple of joints and some kind of trippy music on the turntable – music and environment intermingled – but it matters not. What matters is that he’s fallen into the scene and that’s one point for her.

Russel disagrees, of course – it’s all part of the charade – but his arguments are few, filling time and creating background noise until 2-D comes around again and throws in an opinion or two. This is proof that he has recovered and is ready for the next round.

She has already chastised Russel for relying too heavily on sexual content – something she is not willing to dive into herself. She’s no prude, but the band is her family, and she prefers not to handle such topics frivolously. Russel doesn’t always humour her, but today he is considerate and turns his musings to tour dates.

Touring is such an exhausting time with non-stop travel from location to location and little time to enjoy each place they go. However, all work and no play drive Gorillaz stir-crazy and they do their best to work a little time in here and there to just relax and reset before continuing on. Russel’s not a beach-goer as far as she’s aware, but he suggests they aim for someplace warm: sun, sand, and surf. Lounging on beaches, looking out over the bluest of water. Drinks and dinner in the open air as the sun goes down, a local band providing atmosphere. Moonlight walks on the boardwalk as the heat of the day evaporates.

There is nothing sensual about Russel’s descriptions, or even particularly romantic, but she can tell by the way 2-D bites on his knuckles, a blush creeping into his cheeks, that he has already found someone with whom to pass the time, drawn though they might be from the back of his mind.

She smiles to herself and leaves him be to enjoy whatever date he has wrangled from the depths of himself until he’s startled awake by a server who comes by and asks them if they would like anything else. 2-D smiles sheepishly, refuses, but thanks her and they follow suit.

2-D checks his phone and makes a little grunt of annoyance, lamenting at the time.

“I’s too bad i’s so late,” he says. “I could do with a sweet if it weren’t so close to supper.”

“We got nowhere to be,” Russel reminds him. “You can push eating back. I just don’t know about the quality of the stuff here. Their coffee’s great and they have a wide variety of teas, but their dessert selection is… lackluster.”

“Oh, no…” 2-D sighed, lost in thought. “I wan’t thinking of here. There’s a place onna way home that… they got these tarts. Smallish, but not too much. I’s why it might be too late to have one. They got all kinds, but, there’s this one… i’s like a dark chocolate mousse almost, with a caramel ribbon in it, but salted-like, so i’s not too sweet, and so you got the sweet an’ the bitter an’ the salt an’ i’s soft, like clouds…”

Something like that would melt in the mouth, she thinks. Simply dissolve with no need to chew, only sit and savour. She can almost taste it herself. Almost… but not quite. It’s never quite enough to simply imagine something as important as chocolate mousse.

“Bitter and salted on top of the sweet. I could go for something like that,” Russel says.

“Me too,” she agrees. “Let’s swing by and see what they’ve got.”

“Oh, um… You can if you want to,” 2-D tells them, “but I think I maybe oughtn’t. Should be eating proper an’ all.”

“Since when are you militant about mealtimes in the face of sugar?” Russel challenges him, standing. “Look, we’re stopping in and that’s that. My treat. You and Noodle. If I’m feeling generous, maybe I’ll get one for Murdoc too, although he’s as likely to toss it out the window as anything else.”

“Oh, well… a’right,” 2-D agrees he as straightens his jacket.

2-D eases by her as she sorts out her bag and casts her the briefest of glances, one filled with devilry and fun. Then he winks at her and falls into step behind Russel.

She laughs to herself as she catches up to them, thinking it’s as much as they deserve.


	6. Say It With Hearts

She loved her bandmates, but some days she didn’t know _what_ to do with them.

In particular, she didn’t know what to do with Russel.

Murdoc was an asshole in both good moods and bad. When she suspected the latter, she approached the situation accordingly, with no expectation of aid or consideration, and engaged him directly. If he spit venom, she backed off, no questions asked. If he only engaged in vicious speech, she answered in kind. Eventually he relaxed, amused by the attitude pouring forth from the young women he had helped raise from girlhood and he could return to assholery in a better mood than before.

2-D was a wealth of emotion and mostly in tune with it. On those occasions when he lost his centre and the life drained out of him, giving way to waves of despair, she regressed. She would have preferred to lavish him with attention too seldom received, but this only mired him in feelings of helplessness. Instead, she changed the pitch of her voice, slid more often into Japanese, and bid him help her with some chore, allowing him to find purpose in the act of being a big brother.

But Russel, now… Russel…

In his sphere, Russel was whole, but he moved through the world as through an apocalyptic landscape. In many ways, she supposed it was: a place and time broken and shattered by greed and hate and self-righteous pettiness. It was a place of darkness and conspiracies, of suspicion and doubt, and he seemed determined to put it back together one small shard at a time instead of adjusting and adapting and coaxing new life from its soil.

She tried talking to him, being supportive and kind, easing his thoughts in new directions, but talk was not for them. When they spoke, his fears and doubts awoke in her all the terrors of her past, all the attempts to shape her and remake her into a creature of war and fire. It was all they could do to steer themselves toward calmer waters and sail undisturbed, never knowing what might rise from the deep of them, what storm might suddenly buffet them and sink their fragile state of mind.

No, talk was not for them. At least not deep conversation. Small words, on the other hand, left no room for the storm. Small words, typed and sent, could carry weight and flecks of cheer. Flecks she hoped would fuse together, building a wall of positivity through which the ills of the world could not get through.

_Thanks for shopping with me today. ::hugs::hugs:: I love you!_

A few quick snaps and an image sent with, _Looking good! I love that coat! You’ll drive them wild!_

Or, _I_ really _appreciate your cooking today. I was so not up to it. We should make cookies for next week’s session together._

Not every moment or every hour, or even every day. Two today and one on Wednesday, maybe three per day for the rest of the week...

Every one festooned with a flurry of hearts. Every one carrying a single thought unspoken—

_I love you. I love you. Are you proud of me? This is what you have made…_

—and a hope that, perhaps, it would one day be enough.


	7. Getting Smilies Painted on Your Soul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Addiction. Mentions of teen drug use.

He supposes it began with his mother.

Not that he blames her. Though she knows the ins and outs of the hospital system like the back of her hand, it must have been frightening to see her only child pass through it with a life-threatening injury. Most children learned how to be careful by breaking an arm or shattering a collarbone, but not he. Why settle for half-measures when one can proceed directly to a head injury?

And he had done nothing to mitigate the situation, of course. What child, slathered in concerned affection is willing to let it go?

He hadn’t lied about the headaches. They were real, the worst of them severe enough to make him wish for death, to make him cry, although crying only made them worse. He hadn’t lied, but he might have extended their duration a little to take advantage of the care he could not appreciate when he hurt too much to notice. And he might have found headaches a convenient excuse thereafter, regardless of their severity. The right little wince could absolve him of wrongs, earn him attention, or get him out of gatherings he did not wish to attend.

He might have even overused the trick. Not enough to disrupt their lives, but enough that a clever person would have realized what he was about.

But cleverness had never run in his family.

And so, his mother had done the only thing she could think to do. She acquired something that would make the pain go away. She divided it up and started him on a very low dose, something that would be effective, but not too harmful for a child. It was then that he learned something that he carried with him forever.

Headaches were bad, but drugs were very, _very_ good.

A low dose, not too harmful once or twice, but with long-term consequences. Consequences not really considered, for foresight had never run in his family either.

Consequences, after all, were for the future and, in that moment, he was feeling all right. Better than all right. Much, _much _better.__

__In spite of a lack of foresight, his mother was knowledgeable enough not to give him such strong medication too often. It was reserved for the most debilitating of headaches and hidden away at all other times (he had found it eventually, but that was another story). He was tempted to increase the number and severity of his headaches, if only to see if the pleasant experience would be repeated each time, but he feared he would be found out and managed some restraint. Nevertheless, he almost looked forward to headaches painful enough to push his tolerances and, by the time graduation loomed, he was taking a full pill with semi-regularity… and a few other things in between._ _

__As much as he enjoyed the pills, the other things in between were what kept him going. He had learned, over time, that he could grow accustomed to the pills, dulling their effectiveness. Not knowing how often his prescription could be filled, he made do with milder things that nevertheless gave him a sense of wellbeing._ _

__After all, a single pill, in trade, bought him an awful lot of milder things._ _

__And then there was the accident. And then it no longer mattered._ _

__Murdoc was more than happy to find a way to keep him in stock. Milder things, different things, but few things stronger. Murdoc was happy to find them, happy to bring them home, happy to let him take them, keeping him content, keeping him quiet, keeping him docile and dependent. He knew as much. He could tell._ _

__He simply didn’t care._ _

__Prescriptions to stop the pain… always very important. Something to ease side effects, making the prescriptions more enjoyable. Something to smoke in between, making the good feeling last. Something to perk him up if he needed to come out of his stupor. Something to drink to be sociable. Something to put him to sleep if the stimulants hadn’t worn off. Something to get him back up in the morning. Something to keep him from being sick._ _

__Lather. Rinse. Repeat._ _

__He doesn’t know when it changed. Somewhere along the line, his heart ceased to glow and his thoughts ceased to wander in clouds, navigating instead the ins and outs of his own body._ _

__Prescriptions to make the pain manageable at best. Something to stave off the worst of the side effects, making the prescriptions bearable. Something to smoke in between to dull what cannot be suppressed. Something to help him focus through the fog of the effects. Something to drink because he wants to forget. Something to put him to sleep because he no longer can. Something to get him up in the morning in case he no longer does._ _

__Nothing to keep him from being sick. Not anymore._ _

__Something and something and something and something… the building blocks of his day. He swallows the pills, drinks the liquids, smokes the herbs, and hopes._ _

__Hopes that this time they’ll be strong enough, powerful enough, plentiful enough._ _

__Hopes he can feel normal._ _


	8. Male Restroom Etiquette

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. As the title suggests, contains toilet talk.

“What took you so long? We thought we’d have to send a search party.”

Murdoc drained his glass and signalled to the server for another beer as Russel slid into the booth, looking irritated.

“If you must know,” Russel told him, fidgeting with his cutlery, a sign of obvious distress, “some guy talked to me.”

2-D gasped so suddenly that Noodle choked on her soda and nearly whirled around to see what horrors might be approaching them until she realized it was a reaction to Russel’s statement.

“I don’t get it,” she said.

“Some guy talked to me in the men’s room,” Russel clarified.

“Did you try to sell him an album?” Murdoc prodded. Russel glared at him. “Bit of a waste then, wan’t’it?”

“I did not approach the man,” Russel told him. “The man approached me.”

“A’s terrible,” 2-D commiserated.

“What’s terrible about it?”

Noodle thought the topic irrelevant. Russel was late getting back to the table because someone talked to him in the bathroom. Big deal. She would have insisted they let the subject drop, but the horrified reaction from 2-D left her curious.

Russel looked momentarily flustered before answering, “There are rules! You _do not_ talk to other men in the restroom. You just don’t! Do not talk to them, do not take the stall or urinal next to them—“

“Especially the urinal,” 2-D added.

“—do not make any weird noises, and do not look at another man’s junk. You just don’t!”

“Well, if he’s going to approach you anyway, you could at least have tried to sell him an album,” Murdoc insisted.

“No!” Russel replied, aghast.

“I’s bad etiquette,” 2-D agreed, as fussily English as Noodle had ever heard him.

“Etiquette my arse,” Murdoc said as the server arrived to place a fresh drink beside him. “I’ve seen you piss up against a wall in broad daylight.”

“A’s out in nature. I’s diff’rent,” 2-D said.

“It was in an alley off Kensington,” Murdoc replied.

The server swiftly retreated.

“I’s still the outdoors. It don’t count the same,” 2-D insisted, fiddling with his silverware. “An’ anyway no one talked to me. Not like you pissin’ in a public fountain, singin’ that mucked up version of ‘God Save the Queen’.”

Murdoc slammed his hand on the table. “That was a power move!”

“You two are disgusting,” Russel said.

“Ew,” Noodle agreed with horrified fascination as she sipped her drink.

“In my defence, the place we were at only had three urinals an’ two stalls and there were blokes in the far urinals and one inna far stall, an I needed to go, so I had to nip out the back door or else use a buffer,” 2-D said.

“Oh. Well. That’s reasonable,” Russel amended.

“Reasonable?” Murdoc all but shouted. “You can’t sell a bloody album in the toilets, but 2-D pissing up against a wall ‘cause he didn’t want to use one of two free options is reasonable?”

“They were buffers,” Russel said as 2-D nodded, justified.

“But if there were two free—“ Noodle began.

“Look, they weren’t ‘free’,” Russel told her. “They were buffers. So, like, one guy at a urinal, a free urinal, another guy at a urinal, a free stall, and one guy in the last stall. In that situation, you either gotta hold it or find some other means. If there hadn’t been a back door and he really couldn’t hold it, 2-D _might_ have used a buffer, but that would have been awkward for everyone. His was really the best solution.”

“That makes zero sense,” Noodle said.

“That’s ‘cause you use the ladies’ room,” Russel told her.

“I used the ladies’ once,” 2-D said apropos of nothing. “This bird invited me in. Kept callin’ me Sarah. I’s very nice an’ friendly in there, but awful messy.”

“The ladies’ room is not ‘messy’,” Noodle informed him, affronted.

“This one was,” 2-D said.

“They’re terrible,” Murdoc agreed.

“Yeah, they’re pretty disgusting,” Russel said. “I’ve cleaned bathrooms to make a buck and the ladies’ room is always worse. Not that I’m layin’ blame, understand. It’s just that you all _do_ things in there. Perfume spills, water gets on the floor, some of Hell’s minions test their lipstick by kissing the mirrors… Guys are very ‘go and get out’. No time to make a mess. Unless they’re drunk and miss the urinals, but then you got the ‘hover’ situation on the other side, so all’s fair.”

“When were you in the ladies’ room, Murdoc?” 2-D said before Noodle could comment.

“I’ve been in the ladies’ numerous times. It’s a good place for a bit of a quick—“

“I don’t want to hear it!” Noodle interrupted. “It’s bad enough listening to you guys go on about… bathroom etiquette.”

“Look, all you need to know is that there are three basic rules,” Russel told her. “Stick to your business, don’t talk to anyone, and get out fast.”

“An’ dun eat the blue mints,” 2-D added.

“Or just do whatever the Hell you want,” Murdoc said. “Society owes you nothing.”

“You’re the reason we don’t get invited to the nice places,” Russel told him, raising his glass to finish the dregs of his drink.

“Was there anyone in the loo other than the bloke who talked to you?” 2-D said. Russel shook his head. “Right, then. I’mma go while i’s safe.”

“You’re all weird and disgusting,” Noodle told them fondly, rising from her seat.

“And where are you off to?” Russel prompted.

She grinned sheepishly.

“Powder my nose,” she said.


	9. Bad Omen Anecdote

“So… Anyone have any clue where we are?”

“No idea.”

“None.”

“Nope.”

“We could ask for directions,” Noodle said, ever pragmatic, but the others just shrugged.

“We _could_ ,” Russel agreed, “but how many of us actually wanted to make this engagement anyway?”

No one raised their hands. 2-D even pulled his hands into his sleeves to avoid confusion.

“See?” Russel said. “Getting lost is the best thing that could happen to us. Even better ‘cause it’s true.”

“They’ll just ask us why we didn’t get a cab,” Ace said.

“Or an Uber,” Noodle added.

“Oops,” Russel said, pretending to fumble his phone before shoving it in his pocket. “I’m old. I don’t get technology. Let’s check out the sights.”

“It’s an interview,” Noodle stressed unconvincingly. “It’s good publicity.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen that station. I don’t much like what they promote. Just ‘cause they got one reasonable program, doesn’t mean I want a slot on it,” Russel told her. “We ought to fire the agent.”

“Industry wanker. No choice,” 2-D reminded him as he lit a cigarette and offered the pack around. Noodle accepted, but Ace declined, rolling a lollipop around on his tongue.

“Well, no choice other than to get lost,” Russel said, grabbing a cigarette, but tucking it away for later. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“Me an’ Murdoc bailed on an interview once to crash a party in LA. All kinds’a celebrities there.” 2-D paused to take a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. “Fancy catering too.”

“So what?” Russel prompted. “They put the drugs out in crystal candy dishes?”

“Salad bowls,” 2-D corrected.

“My mistake,” Russel said. “Must have been a Hell of a night.”

“Well, I was in the hospital ‘cause they din’t mix so well with alcohol,” 2-D said, “an’ Murdoc did a bird ‘cause of the raid. Most were in a few days, but he got like a month ‘cause he shouted he had a loaded weapon and pissed on an officer from the balcony.”

“Let’s not do that,” Noodle said. “Any suggestions, Ace? You’re the newest.”

“I’m up for just about anything that’s not an interview,” he told her. “Wasn’t too keen on being in front of a camera to begin with. I just thought it was a thing you did.”

Noodle gave a little shrug. “It is, technically, but we’ve done more than one no-show if we don’t like the venue. It’s good to argue about it though. Helps to keep the stories straight. We’re lost, they’re old, and they can overpower us.”

“They could overpower me,” Ace said. “You—“

“Look,” Noodle interrupted. “In the public eye, you have to know when to show you’re a badass and when to be a helpless little girl.”

Ace considered this a moment, shifting his candy in his mouth.

“Riiight,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“So what _do_ you do when you have a free night?” Russel interjected.

“Well… me and the gang used to knock off a shop or two for kicks when we had nothing better to do,” Ace admitted. “You know… snacks, sodas, spare change, and toilet paper.”

“Toilet paper?”

“We mostly shacked up in a dump,” Ace explained. “Well appointed it ain’t. We’d sometimes grab beer if we were feeling ambitious and no one was trackin’ us.”

“Sounds like you kept the place well-stocked anyway,” Russel said.

“On off-nights,” Ace replied. “Usually we were curb-stomped by kindergarteners, but there wasn’t much else to do in Townsville.”

Russel snorted. “For that kind of return, you should’ve just robbed banks.”

“Yeah, ‘cause then the cops could've watched us get curb-stomped by kindergarteners,” Ace said. “I’ll take that cigarette now, if you’re still offerin’, D.”

2-D nodded, offering Ace a look of sympathy.

“You want it mixed with weed?” he said

“Oh, fuck yes. Thanks.”

“So no lavish parties and no petty crime,” Noodle said. “There’s got to be a bar or a club we can hang out at for a few hours until people stop looking for us.”

“Could do. Could co,” Russel said. “I won’t be any kind of company mind. They suck the life out of me. And the last time we hit one up, Murdoc ended up in jail.”

The band members considered this, casting each other meaningful looks.

“Club it is then,” Noodle said.

“Hey ho.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Good call.”


	10. Corner of Woe

“Anyone seen 2-D?”

Noodle sighed, looked up from her phone, and gave Russel a Significant Look.

“Ace ate the last of the ice cream,” she said.

“And?” Russel prompted, uncertain where she was headed.

“It was 2-D’s favourite ice cream. The ice cream he was _saving_.”

“Oh,” Russel said. “He’s off sulking.”

Noodle half-rolled her eyes as she turned part of her attention back to the phone.

“Off sulking would be an improvement,” she said. “He’s huddled up on a corner of the sofa, the one against the dim wall of the room, so we can all witness his terrible suffering. That’s why I’m in the kitchen.”

“Huh.” Russel looked back, leaning sideways a little to peer through the kitchen door where the visual alignment allowed him to see a very slim sliver of the front room. “So he is. I just went through there and didn’t even see him.”

“Oh, that’s perfect,” Noodle said, nostrils flaring. “Now he can go on about how ignored he is too. No one loves him or cares about his misery. No one even notices when he’s sad…”

“To be fair, he’s huddled up in that blanket we use for a sofa cover,” Russel said. “Your eye just kind of skips over it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Noodle told him. “That. Does. Not. Matter. You have disregarded his obvious distress. His only option is to now wither and die and become one with the upholstery.”

Russel looked unconvinced. “I think that’s a little…”

“He will tell me about it,” Noodle said. “At length. About how little you love him and care about his feelings. You’re a bad friend, Russel—"

“Now, wait,” Russel interjected, raising a hand, but Noodle plowed on through.

“You’re a bad friend and don’t love him because you do not appreciate the psychological despair that a lack of ice cream brings,” she said. “You don’t even care that some upstart outsider is to blame for it. You probably like him better anyway—“

The sound of the back door cut her litany short.

“Is it safe?” Ace said, slinking into the kitchen from the back garden.

“Depends,” Noodle told him. “Did you bring me alcohol?”

“No,” Ace replied, holding up a shopping bag. “Ice cream.”

“Not good enough.”

“It’s replacement ice cream,” Ace said, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “It’s the same kind I finished.”

“Is it kept by ice cream?” Noodle challenged him. “Is it special, saved ice cream? Because new ice cream doesn’t heal the wounds of disrespect, Ace.”

“You can tell him I’m really, _really_ , sorry,” Ace told her.

“You tell him. I don’t need more tales of woe,” Noodle sniffed.

“He scares me, man,” Ace protested. He raised his hands to Russel in supplication, but Russel stepped away, shaking his head, hands raised to fend him off. “He’s got that weird eye thing—”

“Hyphema,” Noodle informed him.

“—and you can’t tell where he’s looking half the time. He just… stares. And then he says shit like, ‘If you’re of two minds about something, split it in half and save one part so if you lose your mind, you’ll have a spare.’”

“Ace…"

“I don’t know what that means, Noodle!”

“Ace,” Noodle sighed, “you opened this can of worms, now lie in it.”

“That is… a terrifying mash-up,” Ace said.

“Then face it like a viable human being,” Noodle countered and proceeded to ignore him.

Looking defeated, Ace extracted the ice cream container from the bag, found a clean spoon, and sallied forth into the front room. Russel gave him a few minutes, and then leaned back to peer through the door.

“How’s it going?” Noodle said.

“I think he’s crying.”

“2-D?”

“No. Ace.”

“Better him than me,” Noodle said and went back to her phone.

A few minutes later, 2-D ambled into the kitchen, mining chunks out of a small carton of ice cream, looking peaceful and content.

“Better?” Noodle said.

“Ace got me more ice cream,” 2-D replied unnecessarily and put the spoon in his mouth. “I’s vewwy mice a’him,” he added around it.

“Uh-huh,” Noodle said. “Where is he now?”

2-D shrugged and pulled the spoon out of his mouth.

“He was curled up onna couch. He said sorry an’ gave me ice cream an’ I said ice cream was the soul of a warm heart an’ he started to cry an’ said the world was dying an’ wouldn’t say anything else so I thanked him an’ left.” He cast Russel a reproachful look. “You din’t say hello when you came in.”

“Welp, I’m done,” Noodle said, standing, eyes glued to her phone.

“Now, Noodle…” Russel began, but she shook her head.

“Sorry. Can’t put it off. I’ve got to… paint my toenails or something. You two have fun.”

She nipped out the door just as 2-D collapsed into a chair, scraping at the inner walls of the ice cream carton.

“It was terribly rude, Russ,” he said.

Russel considered lying, and then gamely made an attempt to deflect with the truth.

“You were hiding under the sofa cover in a dim part of the room,” he told 2-D. “I literally did not see you.”

“I would have thought you’d be more sensitive than that,” 2-D replied, his voice laced with disappointment.

Russel sighed. “Look, can I at least get a beer?”

It was going to be a long day.


	11. Traintop Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Hospitals. Dangerous stunts. Do not try this at home.

“Murdoc’s in the hospital for what?”

Noodle arched her eyebrows in utter disbelief. She felt the news deserved a more extreme reaction than she was giving it, but the absolute absurdity of the situation left the wheels in her brain spinning empty.

“He tried to pull a daring escape by jumping onto the back of a slow-moving train and taunting his pursuer to come after him,” Russel repeated. “Then he got blown off when the train picked up speed.”

“And he survived?” Noodle said casually as she tried to kickstart her brain into understanding the full scope of the situation.

“He’s got friends in low places,” Russel reminded her. “Not friendly enough to guarantee success or save him from cracked ribs, a broken arm, and a concussion, but friendly enough that he’ll be walking out tomorrow. He’s in for ‘observation’.”

“Of course,” Noodle said. “No doctor’s going to pass up the chance to study that level of idiocy in person.”

“I’s brilliant,” 2-D snickered. “He tried to be cool an’ went flyin’ like a rag doll.”

“I thought you, of all people, would be sympathetic,” Noodle said. “You’re always the first person to say we ought to be understanding of Murdoc, no matter what he does.”

“Yeah, but he wan’t hurt much, really,” 2-D told her. “A’s the sort of thing that won’t even stop him doin’ it again. He’ll just say he dun it wrong and do it better next time.”

Russel sighed. “You’re right, man. I honestly don’t know what’s goin’ through Murdoc’s head half the time, but this is just the kind of thing he’d see as a challenge.”

“He’d have to keep his body lower an’ hold on to somethin’,” 2-D continued, stunning Noodle into shocked curiosity. “You stand up tall like that an’ the wind’ll take you. You gotta watch out for crosswinds, too, if there’re other trains or walls an’ the like.”

“You… haven’t tried to do this yourself, have you?” Noodle pressed as a glimmer of realization dawned on 2-D’s general obliviousness.

“Um… no. Of course not,” 2-D said, doing his best to project an aura of innocence and crumbling under Noodle’s relentless stare.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Why would you do that?” Noodle demanded.

“I wanted to feel like a superhero,” 2-D said. “Also, i’s expensive to get into town, so if you do part on the top, i’s cheaper and you got money left over for sweets. Me an’ my mates only dun it on the first leg.”

“You and your _mates_?” Noodle gaped. “How are none of you dead?”

“God protects children and fools,” Russel offered.

“We got good,” 2-D said as though it were obvious. “You got to stay down low is all.”

“You almost got done in by a _tree_ , and you thought riding the top of a train would be a good idea?” Noodle said.

“Only a short way,” 2-D insisted.

“To be fair,” Russel interjected, “he’s survived being hit with a car twice since then. He might have just been building up his resistance to utter disaster.”

“Yeah,” 2-D agreed, not really paying attention to Russel’s logic, but happy to agree with anything that would move the conversation along.

“Anyway,” Russel said, “we’ve got to set some time aside tomorrow to go pick up Murdoc before he tries some dumb-ass shit like hitching a ride.”

“If 2-D’s coming, is he riding on the top of the car?” Noodle pressed.

“Cars are different!” 2-D insisted. “They’re not built the same an’ there’s traffic an’ nothin’ to hold on to. You can’t just ride a car—“

Russel sighed. “No one’s riding on the outside of anything. We’ll pick Murdoc up and—“

The front door flew open and Murdoc strode into the house, one arm in a cast, resting lightly in a sling.

“Bring forth the fattened goat, the lord of damnation has come!” he shouted.

“What are you doing here?” Russel snapped. “You’re supposed to be in the hospital!”

“Well, they wouldn’t let me smoke except in designated areas outdoors,” Murdoc told him, “so I went out for a puff and did a runner. I need a drink and fifteen hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

Noodle eyed him sceptically. “Russel said you had a concussion.”

“Well, you can tell both of him, that it’ll take more than a blow to the head to stop Murdoc… Something-something. Look!” Murdoc swayed slightly on his feet, trying to wag his finger at Noodle, but seeming uncertain of her exact position. “Doctors are worthless wankers always trying to get me to ponder things like ‘health’ and ‘rehab’. I’m bloody well right as rain and there’s nothing I could do at that hospital that I can’t do here. Rest? I’m a champ at lying comatose. Medication? I’ve got enough rum to medicate the greater London area—“

“You know that’s not what they meant by ‘medication’, right?” Noodle said, but Murdoc ignored her.

“How’d you get home?” 2-D said when it was obvious Murdoc would not pursue other lines of conversation. “We were gonna pick you up tomorrow…”

“You didn’t hitch, did you?” Russel, squinted suspiciously.

“Pfft… Hitch? In this condition? Some wanker’s apt to steal my wallet,” Murdoc told them. “I took the train.”

“I hope you didn’t try to ride the top again,” Russel huffed.

“Do I _look_ like a bloody idiot?” Murdoc snorted. “Are we calling me 2-D, now?”

Russel and Noodle side-eyed 2-D as Murdoc paused, fishing through his pockets for a cigarette, and then gave them a devilish grin.

“I rode on the back like a normal bloke.”


	12. He Didn't Make It

“I’m sorry, he didn’t make it.”

It was always difficult to notify friends and family of the demise of a loved one, and he had been fortunate enough to avoid the talk for most of his career. However, in those times when it had been necessary to do so, things had never gone quite as strangely as this.

Four sets of eyes blinked at him owlishly, registering neither sadness, nor disbelief, but a sort of stunned confusion.

“Murdoc’s dead?” the young woman said.

“I’m afraid so,” he told her, a bit put off by her blunt appraisal. “Heart failure. We tried to revive him, but—“

“I didn’t even know he had a heart,” said the larger man with the woollen cap. He turned to his companions. “Doesn’t he have some kind of deal with Satan? Like, he’s gotten out of some seriously weird scrapes.”

A tall, greasy-looking man said, “You think his deal expired? Maybe his luck ran out?”

“I don’t know,” the young woman said. Then she looked up at him shrewdly. “How much did he pay you to troll us?”

This startled him and he sifted through his carefully rehearsed collection of stock responses that, somehow, did not include anything to counter an accusation of fraud.

“I–I assure you,” he stammered. “This is not a joke or some kind of trick. Your friend—“

“Look,” the young woman persisted, “I know we brought him in half-frozen and tied to a yak, but surely…”

“There can be no mistake,” he said in spite of a creeping doubt.

“Does that mean I still have a job?” said the tall man with the greasy hair.

“Really not the time,” the young woman told him. “We have a funeral to plan. I’m thinking black roses…”

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” the tall man with blue hair said. Of all of them, he was the only one who exhibited the kind of grief one might expect from a friend or a loved one.

And then, as if in mockery of this assessment, a slow, sly grin spread across his face.

“That means I can do _anything_ I want,” he said malevolently.

“Too soon, D,” the larger man said.

“…black crepe, the works. ‘Highway to Hell’ in the background…”

“Okay,” the blue-haired man said, looking whipped, “but I still get to be in charge, yeah?”

“Look, I need to know if I should cancel my flight or what,” the greasy-looking one interjected. “Tickets cost a mint.”

“…no naked, drunken tributes though…”

He wondered if they were all suffering emotional trauma.

“Would any of you care to speak with a social worker?” he ventured. “I know this can be a difficult time…”

“Believe me, this is exactly the kind of nonsense he’d have wanted,” the larger man said. He turned to the young woman. “Get a cheese carved in his likeness for the reception. If it can be moulded around a whiskey fountain, even better.”

“Oh, I like that,” the young woman said.

“Do we bury him with the cape or a leather jacket?” the blue-haired man said. “If we do the jacket, don’t use the nice one. I want it.”

“Can I have his base?” the greasy one said.

He listened in stunned confusion for several seconds as the four people bickered over funeral details and who could repossess which of the deceased’s personal items when a voice boomed throughout the waiting room.

“What the bloody Hell is going on out here?”

The owner of the voice stood in the middle of the waiting room in a ragged orange jumpsuit looking worse enough for wear that he might have been a walking corpse himself.

“You’re not dead!” the blue-haired man shouted joyfully, and then his face crumpled into a look of conflicted disappointment before shifting back to joy… and then to mild terror.

“Dead? Who told you I was dead?” the man bellowed and then turned a mismatched stare upon him. “Are you the tosser that started this?” The man slapped him upside the head. “Stop telling people I’m dead! If Death wants Murdoc Niccals, he’ll have to fucking fight me.”

“Niccals?” he said weakly, shrinking away from cauldron of mixed emotions in the little corner of the room before him. “It isn’t Mitchell?”

“Who the fuck would name their kid Murdoc Mitchell?” the man in the orange jumpsuit snapped, nose wrinkled in disgust.

He felt a little weak in the knees and apologized profusely for the mistake, hoping to bow out with some dignity. It did not work quite the way he wanted.

“I ought to break your face for that, mate,” the man in the jumpsuit said, pointing an accusatory finger at him, “but as far as I’m concerned, you did me a favour. You showed me exactly who I can trust. Yeah, I heard your little conversation, you bloody wankers, and let me tell you…”

As the argument began and steadily rose in volume, he beat a hasty retreat.


	13. Battle of the Bands

“You guys up for a little ‘battle of the bands’?” Russel said, scrolling through his phone.

“Is there money?”

Murdoc looked curious but shied away from any commitment that did not profit him. Russel side-eyed him, and then turned back to his phone.

“Not much,” he admitted. “A few thousand as a token winner’s purse. It’s more a charity gig. You know… Get some acts to volunteer. Stage a battle of the bands. Sell tickets. Profit goes to charity.”

“Bugger all that then,” Murdoc told him.

“I think it could be fun,” Noodle chimed in. “And if the money doesn’t do it for you, think of the PR. I mean, it’s not that big a commitment. They won’t run it longer than a weekend, certainly.”

“Looks like the schedule depends on the number of acts,” Russel told her, “but they’re aiming to run it Friday night to Sunday with the last face-off Sunday night.”

“Does that mean morning shows?”

“If they get enough volunteers, probably.”

Noodle groaned at that and they all followed suit.

“Could be worth it for headlines though,” she admitted. “Especially if we all show up hungover.”

“Wouldn’t make a diff’rence to me,” 2-D said. “I always show up hungover.”

“No, you always show up high,” Murdoc corrected him. “You only show up hungover about eighty-two percent of the time.”

“A’s a’right then.”

“So,” Murdoc mused, prodding the salt shaker. “Is it to the death?”

Russel blinked at him in disbelief.

“What?” he said.

“This battle of yours,” Murdoc persisted. “Is it to the death? I mean, I’m not for it, given the poor returns, but Noodle seems gung-ho and I haven’t had a good brawl in a bit.”

“No!" Russel told him. “What the Hell do you think a battle of the bands is?”

“A proper dust-up in the carpark the last time I was in one,” Murdoc said.

“Well that’s not what this is,” Russel informed him.

“Yeah. If it’s for charity, they’ll probably only go until first blood,” Noodle agreed. “Fortunately, my katana’s really sharp. I can have an ‘accident’ with anyone I don’t like.”

“The Hell kinda contests have you guys been in?” Russel said. “This is just a music competition. We’ll just be playing against another band…”

“And then we stab them,” Murdoc said.

“No!”

“Damn. Is it a mech battle?” Noodle fretted. “I haven’t done that since I was, like, five. I’ll be rusty.”

Russel spread his hands in puzzlement. “It’s not—“

“I can bring my knife,” 2-D said.

“Oh, Toochi, no…” Noodle told him, gently touching his arm. “You can’t fight with a switchblade. You’ll hurt yourself. It’s much too short a blade for the length of arm you’ll have exposed. You need to capitalize on your reach. Do you still have that baseball bat with the nails in it?”

“Yeah,” 2-D replied, delighted. “I’m a dead shot with it, too.”

“All right, you know what? Never mind,” Russel said. “We’re not gonna do this. Forget I even brought it up.”

“And here I was just getting to like the idea,” Murdoc said, lighting a cigarette. He blew out a long stream of smoke and grinned. “It’s for _charity_ , Russel. Where’s your civic pride?”


	14. Erotic Asphyxiation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Nothing erotic about this. Phase 5. Warning for descriptions of fetish practises, implied child abuse, implied sexual abuse of a minor.

“Never have I ever taken part in erotic asphyxiation.”

She expected snorts of laughter and crude comments and was not disappointed. The band and the handful of stage crew that had finished mopping up and were hanging in the trailer were faintly buzzed now and everything seemed funny, especially something so obviously sexual and dangerous. The most startling thing was seeing 2-D laughing along with everyone else. She had half-expected him to need the term explained before he could appreciate it.

She should have known better, of course. If it was a sexual kink, 2-D had surely heard of it. It still relieved her to know he had never attempted the act as he did not even glance at the shot glass in front of him. Not that it would mean much if he had taken the shot. 2-D had a tendency to forgetfully down the drink at hand, regardless of whether the question applied to him or not. Sometimes regardless of whether a question had been asked at all.

Ace feinted for his glass and then withdrew his hand, tipping her a wink. It was nice to know he was enjoying his “going away” party, although his departure was largely from the stage now that Murdoc was back. Even so, he would be finishing the tour with them, stepping in to cover music from the latest album, which Murdoc had not yet practised. This suited her fine as Ace had grown on her and she considered him a full-fledged friend and band member. Extended family, so to speak.

(“Friends with band benefits,” he had jokingly called it. She had punched him in the arm in spite of her amusement.)

Russel feigned disappointment at the uncouth nature of her question, but the slight grin that twitched at the corner of his mouth told her he had sussed out her actual plan: to get a damned drink in for once. It was not that she was terribly inexperienced or had not suffered wild adventures, but her experiences differed so greatly from those of her bandmates and more so from those of the crew, that few things they asked applied to her and nearly everything she suggested applied to them.

For instance, she could hardly state that she had never killed a demon, could she? That would be a lie. But it was certain that no one else would even think to ask that question, barring her bandmates, and she had kept the adventure secretive enough that she suspected they would not dare to try. She, on the other hand, while not against intimacy, seldom sought it out, preferring to leave such things to come and go as they would, and so had a narrow experience in the sexual field compared to those who either threw their nets wide, or experimented wildly with their preferred partner.

Denying oxygen to the brain for the purpose of sexual arousal seemed strange enough that it would be unlikely to crop up in such a small group and yet remained sexually provocative enough to fulfill the social contract of alcohol paired with crude humour. As a result, she felt the group would get a good laugh in, and then join her in her denial, prompting her to take a drink before she became unforgivably parched.

She did not expect Murdoc to take a shot.

In retrospect, it should not have surprised her. If any of them would have tried something that dangerous, it was Murdoc. Even so, considering his propensity for control, she would not have thought he would allow himself to be deprived of anything, including air.

It was a bit alarming to know he had tried it. It also prevented her from taking a drink.

“When the Hell?” she said. “You know what it is, right?”

“What? Are you mistaking me for 2-D now?” Murdoc said. “You’d better cut back on the drinking.”

She glared at him until he gave in, rolling his eyes.

“Look,” he said. “There was this industry party full of flighty birds and I done one up in the back bedroom. She was the kinky sort and wanted it up the arse, but with this collar and ‘reins’ of a sort. She was all gussied up in strips of leather, so I thought it all part of the look and didn’t say no. She never said the whole thing was supposed to choke her during the act. I didn’t find out about it until she started going blue. Bit of a mood killer, I must say.”

The party erupted in an appreciative laugh and Murdoc joined in, though not as raucously as she might have expected. His expression, if anything, seemed somewhat strained.

“First and only time Murdoc Niccals abandoned a scene mid-coitus,” he continued once the laughter had died down. “Caused a bit of a row, but I’m not being kept at her majesty’s pleasure for unintended murder should something go wrong. Intended murder is something else entirely, of course. Seems I botched your drink there, love,” he added when she gave him an exasperated look, “but you did say ‘take part’ not ‘experience’. You know, if you put a little umbrella in a glass of sparkling apple juice, no one can tell it’s not whiskey and ginger ale.”

This prompted another round of laughter and commentary, partly at her expense, but she dismissed it by taking her shot anyway and flipping Murdoc off. He grinned at her cheek as he always did, but his heart did not seem in it. However, it was not the time nor the place to look into the matter and she allowed the game to continue on as before.

It was not until most of the band and crew had retired for the night and she stepped outside for a breath of fresh air and a cigarette that she had the opportunity to ask about it. Murdoc wandered out shortly after she, ambling over to the quiet corner of the lot where she had hunkered down on a retaining wall. She supposed she must have been out of view for he did not acknowledge her or even look in her direction until she greeted him, startling him in the process.

“Not the safest place to be at night, love,” he joked, knowing full well that she could defend herself. He lit a cigarette and sat down beside her.

“I like to live dangerously,” she told him, grinning when he snorted, a muted sort of laughter.

They sat in silence a while, enjoying their respective vices, until she stubbed her cigarette out against the wall and dropped the used filter on the ground.

“That story you told,” she said, hesitating a moment, and then continuing. “The one about asphyxiation. That wasn’t true, was it?”

“Bright as daylight, you are, love,” Murdoc said. “But no word was a lie. One of the few times you’ll get to hear the full truth, so savour it.”

“Okay, so it was true,” she agreed, “but it wasn’t the story you wanted to tell, was it?”

Murdoc did not respond immediately, finishing his cigarette and lighting another, staring up at the moon.

“I know I was never much of a father,” he told her. “I know I’ve neglected you and sometimes said offensive things just to rile you up, taking my frustrations out on someone younger than me, relying on Russel to look after you and 2-D to cheer you up. I know that, if you haven’t kicked my arse to Hell and back yet, it’s because you’re too decent and dignified to waste your efforts on someone like me. But I’ve never hit you, have I, love? I’ve never rented you out for another’s pleasure, neither your dignity nor your body?”

She said nothing to this. She felt she had nothing to say.

“I’m not trying to exonerate myself,” Murdoc told her when the silence had gone on too long. “I really want to know. I might have benefitted from the band and from your talent, but I’ve made certain that your talent was your own. That people knew of your abilities and that they were yours. At least I think that I have. Have I at least done that much, love?”

She did not respond immediately, leaving the question up in the air a moment as she considered everything that had gone before. All the pressures and the fears, the lack of understanding, the… accident. All things she could hate him for, if she chose to. No one would blame her if she did.

But her talent was indeed her own. Her body was her own. Her self was her own. And if she walked out of the band and into a new studio, she would be accepted as she was, for herself, as herself.

“Yes,” she said. “You’ve done that much.” And then. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s a small thing,” Murdoc said, “but a small thing is better than nothing. I’ll give the old man this much: he put a stop to things once he knew what it was about. Had a sore throat for days, mind.”

“Thank you,” she said.

For trusting me, she did not add. She would not, _could_ not, thank him yet for raising her, not with the clouds still surrounding them, but that was not what the story was about. The story was about self-sufficiency, about being unable to work within a group for fear of being disappointed, abandoned, tossed under the bus. The story was about using people before they used you and being unable to break the habit.

The story was about asking for help after decades of being taught that help did not exist.

If she could understand the things Murdoc could not share, then one day he might not see people as obstacles, as barriers, as potential pitfalls. If it was acknowledged that he could give a little, then one day he might be able to give much more.

“That’s it, then,” Murdoc told her, grinding the end of his cigarette against the retaining wall. “I’m off to bed. Best to make sure 2-D hasn’t passed out in the crisp bowl.”

“I’ll go with you,” she said, standing as he did, and stretching as far as she could, from the sky to the earth, every inch of her refreshed, revitalized, and wholly herself.

She fell into step beside Murdoc and held the door open as they climbed back into the trailer.


	15. Suicide Dare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Are many. Phase One. **Suicide Dare. Suicidal Ideation and Impulses. Abuse. Abusive Language. Implied Depressive Episodes.** A suicide dare, like the name implies, is the act of daring or urging someone to kill themselves, often used as mockery or contempt. This can be played for laughs. I prefer it not be. Those who would like a lighter story are urged to move on to the next chapter.

It’s darker here than in the city.

In spite of the street lamps far below, in spite of the building’s everglow as those inside burn the midnight oil, Kong Studios is as dark as dark can be. And, 2-D thinks, a lonely sort of place.

Most of the shades are drawn, creating a distinct contrast between the inside warmth and outside cold. The area is littered with trash and gravestones. But here, where he sits on the edge of the roof, the building nudges up against the side of the hill – a steep drop down into the darkness – and the street lamps are very, _very_ far away.

Home is very far away.

Who is he kidding? he thinks. He chose to come here, didn’t he? It was his choice, his prerogative. His first real choice as an adult, or so he tells himself. On nights like this, he isn’t quite so sure. He can’t remember wanting to be a singer, only famous. The strange and nebulous sort of famous that comes with fantasy and is free of reporters and scrutiny and insult. Free of insinuations regarding his sexuality, which aren’t so bad, and insinuations regarding his ancestry, which are.

It doesn’t help when Murdoc repeats them.

Still, there’s no going back. There’s nothing to go back to. Everything has crashed and burned since Murdoc hit him with his car. 

(And he knows it was Murdoc. He’s been told. Sometimes by Murdoc himself. It doesn’t make the event feel more real or help him connect to everything that went before it.)

It’s not that he doesn’t get along with his parents. He does. And he knows he can go back to them any time he wants. That there will be a place for him. That they always expected him to follow in his father’s footsteps in some form or another. He felt that way himself, in spite of all his fantasies. It feels good, the thought of something so simple: running the rides, checking the machinery, the warm hum of electric motors, and the gentle tick of equipment shutting down…

It also rankles.

Constraints, once shed, are difficult to pick up again. Mere houses are small compared to the studio. He has freedom here. Not that his parents are especially restrictive but…

There are always expectations, or a lack thereof. He knows, in his heart, that most of his dreams are fantasies, but it hurts that this is always assumed, when he’s shown he can be a part of something greater, even if the full extent of that success is yet to be determined. And it hurts more now that his mind’s a scramble, unable to completely reconcile the Stuart Pot that grew up in Crawley and the 2-D that lives in Kong Studios.

Or so it seems as he picks at a spot of wear on his jeans. One that will be a new hole by morning, if he’s any judge. Considering the pairs of jeans he has and the number of holes in them, he might as well be.

He fumbles the pack of cigarettes as he pulls it from his pocket, nearly dropping it in the process, but managing to pin it against his leg before it can tumble over the edge of the roof. He wonders why he bothered as there’s only one left, but then he wouldn’t have the one, and that is all he wants. He lets the package fall as he reaches for his lighter and it seems to fall a long while, dropping past the hill’s edge and into the darkness below.

It’s an interesting thing to note as he inhales the nicotine and lets it fire whatever synapses are awake and aware enough to be fired at this time of night. Interesting, and not much more.

He grabs the bottle beside him and takes a swig just as he blows out the last of the smoke. There’s only a mouthful left. He supposes he’ll have to decide if he wants another beer and whether it’s worth leaving the cool of night just to fetch it.

Murdoc’s arrival forestalls that decision.

“There you are,” he hears Murdoc say as the roof door clicks shut behind him. “I thought I’d have to send out a bleedin’ search party.”

2-D says nothing to that, feeling he has nothing much to say. He doesn’t even ask why Murdoc wants him. Murdoc always wants him for one thing or another. 2-D knows he’ll find out why if he waits long enough.

Murdoc always hits him as well, but the cuff on the ear still surprises him and 2-D flinches, half-expecting another to follow.

“You listening, dullard?” Murdoc says instead, crouching down close to 2-D’s ear. “I said I’ve been looking for you. What’re you doing out here? Or don’t you know how to answer like a human being?”

“Nothing,” 2-D tells him, shrinking away from the smell of Murdoc’s breath and the heat of him hovering so close.

It kills him that a part of him wants to lean into it as well, to make some sort of human connection.

“Nothing,” Murdoc snorts. “All that thinking for ‘nothing’? You’ve pudding for brains. Still…. a pretty good summary of what you are, I suppose. I came to tell you we’re recording early tomorrow. You’d best turn in.”

“Dun see why we ought to,” 2-D says automatically, the cycles of the studio etched into his brain. “You dun get up ‘fore noon anyhow.”

2-D isn’t ready for the second blow when it lands and he very nearly bites his tongue.

“What business is that of yours then?” Murdoc snaps at him. “Maybe I don’t usually get up before noon, but tomorrow we are. I’m the boss here, you stupid git. It’s _my_ band. If I say we’re getting an early start, we’re getting an early start. Got it?”

“Yeah,” 2-D tells him, hating quaver in his voice. “Only…”

“ _Only?_ ” Murdoc sneers at him. “Only what?”

“I’s a’right,” 2-D tells him, uncertain. He isn’t sure what he meant to say or how he meant to say it.

“No,” Murdoc pressures, uncomfortably close. “Go on. I want to hear what thoughts of yours are more important than my orders.”

2-D doesn’t quite know himself. Although it’s been nothing but grief, he gives his mouth more rein than his thoughts can handle.

“Only,” he says, “I thought, maybe, that… maybe I… I oughtn’t really _be_ inna band. That… That maybe it was a mistake.”

2-D doesn’t know what he was expecting. Another blow, perhaps. Some shouting.

Instead, Murdoc hovers nearby a while, and then stands, cracking his back.

“So leave,” Murdoc says, his voice like ice. “Or jump, if that’s your fancy. Go ahead. Singers are a dime a dozen. No one’ll miss you.”

Mum might, 2-D thinks. Or dad. But it’s true that singers are a dime a dozen. True as well that he hasn’t much else to offer.

The blackness below is deep and all-consuming, far from the street lamps and the warmth of the studio. It looks cold and frightening and 2-D would never willingly cast himself into it.

And yet, the thought of the void is appealing in its own way. There are no expectations there.

No failures.

No migraines.

No shattered thoughts.

He might not even fall, he thinks. There’s an air of weight about the darkness, as though it could envelope and support him, suspend him in an infinite bubble of peace.

It might even feel like flying.

2-D feels a vice-like grip on his arm and a violent yank as he’s hauled backwards and onto the flat of the roof. He bumps his head lightly in the tumble, the flash of pain cutting through the jumble of his thoughts, and only then does he feel the tears streaming down his face.

It’s not unusual, this phenomenon, although he isn’t sure what causes it. Too much feeling, he supposes. Too much thought. Murdoc calls it his brain overheating and it doesn’t usually last for long, but this time he can’t seem to stop. Tears pour out and run down his chin, dripping onto his shirt and onto the roof as he rolls over and tries to push himself up onto his hands and knees.

“That hurt!” he accuses with mingled fear and affront.

“Get inside,” Murdoc tells him, his voice dead cold. “Get inside, _now_. No more of this moping around on the edge of the roof.”

“I wun’ta done it,” 2-D complains and crawls forward a pace before the world cants strangely and a wave of despair overwhelms him. He flops over onto his side and curls up there.

“I wun’ta,” he repeats, instinctively covering his head with his arms in anticipation of a rain of blows for his disobedience.

Instead, he hears Murdoc sigh and sit down beside him.

“You’re a fucking wreck,” Murdoc tells him, not unkindly. Not kindly either – Murdoc is not a kind person – but without hatred and without rancour. “It was a joke, mate. You know what jokes are, don’t you?”

2-D says nothing to this. He doesn’t believe it was a joke. He doesn’t believe that Murdoc meant it, but it was also not a joke. It was a hateful comment, a comment to hurt him in the hopes that he would pick a fight. Not to make him—

“I wun’ta done it,” 2-D repeats, throat hoarse from smoking, a lack of beer, and being a mere breath away from meltdown.

“You had that look about you, mate,” Murdoc tells him. “I didn’t know it was a night like that. I might not have said it if I’d known it was a night like that. I’ve had those nights. You’re still my singer, whatever I’ve said. The band wouldn’t be the same without you.”

2-D feels a hand on his shoulder – not gentle, not rough, merely there – and it frightens and angers him how quickly his body responds. The tension drains out of him as though some stopper has been pulled from the bottom of his soul. It frightens and angers him, but relieves him, too. Until that moment, he had not noticed how strung out he was.

“What say you get up and come in with me?” Murdoc says, his voice hypnotic. “I’ll pour us both a drink.”

2-D does not believe the friendly banter for a single moment. He knows the mood can shift at any time. And yet, he uncurls in spite of himself, sits up, and then stands alongside Murdoc. Tears still course over his cheeks and down his neck, but he feels them drying in the corners of his eyes, even as he makes a show of wiping them away.

“There’s my lad,” Murdoc says, giving him a pat on the back. It is neither hesitant, nor too hard, simply amiable, a mood far too rare to be thrown away.

“I want pizza,” 2-D tells him, pushing his luck.

“Doable,” Murdoc says. “I think there are still places we haven’t scared out of delivering here. I’ll even pay for it. What do you say?”

In his mind, 2-D says it’s a shit deal. Says it doesn’t make up for being called stupid. For being called rubbish. For being called worthless.

For being called nothing.

But he knows he’ll never make it on his own. No matter what he thinks or dreams, he doesn’t have the energy or the drive to push so hard to get so far. It’s easier – so much easier – to dull the pain, sing when he’s told to, and let Murdoc take care of the details.

“Okay,” 2-D speaks, earning himself another pat on the back, and it sparks a feeling of warmth and satisfaction.

He hates it.

He loves it.

He hates that he loves it.

At least there will be pizza.


	16. Space Whale Aesop

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Crass talk and tentacles.

“It just goes to show you.”

“Just goes to show you what?”

Russel cast Murdoc, who had progressed from pouring whiskey into a glass to drinking it straight out of the bottle, a confused and questioning glance. Murdoc had decided that he was a font of wisdom that night, although Russel highly suspected that the font was hooked up to the septic system.

“It just goes to show you that cigarettes are bad for your health,” Murdoc reiterated, even as he lit a cigarette and jammed it in his mouth.

“Look, man. You’re not wrong. But I don’t even know how you made the crazy-ass leap from lighting up to being attacked by tentacle monsters.”

“They dun like the smell,” 2-D said, rolling a joint. “A’s why I mostly use marijuana now, or at least mix it up. It smells nicer an’ i’s good for you. It’s got herbs in.”

“No. No. Look,” Murdoc said, pointing a wavering finger at the space between Russel and 2-D. “I mean, yeah, all right, a lot of supernatural creatures don’t like the smell of tobacco and for good reason. It’s all manufactured crap. Absolute shite. You get some premium leaf right out of the ground and they’ll thank you. But the thing is… The thing is, it take real balls to suck a fag to the filter in this day and age. Some serious weight in the trouser department… real or figurative,” he added, with a glance at Noodle. “I mean, it’s the new repression, right? Gotta squash those instincts. Make people smoke out in the cold and wet.”

“I think people involved in the old repression would see that differently,” Russel told him, more amused than offended. “Especially since the old repression tends just keep hangin’ around being new all over again. But go on.”

“Right,” Murdoc said, pounding his fist on the table. “So… You’re out freezin’ your jewels off in the cold and wet. It puts you a little under the weather, yeah? You get yourself some gloves and a muffler and whatnot. Wear a heavier jumper. In and out of the closet all bloody day.”

“You been in an’ outta the closet for years,” 2-D said, several puffs into his twist. “Dunno why it matters now.”

“All bloody day,” Murdoc repeated, ignoring him. “Opening and closing the doors of the… garderobe. How would you like your bedroom door opening and closing all day and you trying to sleep?”

“I think you’re reachin’, man,” Russel told him, getting up to grab a few beers for those deprived of the whiskey bottle. “You could just keep your warm clothes in your room. Throw ‘em on a chair or some shit.”

“You don’t appreciate the depth of what I’m saying,” Murdoc told him as Russel passed bottles to Noodle and 2-D. “It’s not one thing. It’s everything. Like, you’re in and out all day—“

“Stinkin’ of week-old smoke ‘cause you dun shower,” 2-D added.

“Look, I bathe.”

“Marinate, you mean,” 2-D corrected. “You got tobacco-scented incense. I seen you light it.”

Murdoc considered this, wagging a warning finger at one of the many iterations of 2-D that danced in his field of vision, and then gave up.

“That’s fair,” he said. “All right, so… You’re in and out all day, smellin’ of tobacco, with bollocks the size of boulders for keeping up bad habits in the face of puritanism. You’re just advertising that you’re an apex predator that needs to be done in to… solidify one’s place, as it were. Those tentacle buggers are bloody territorial. Take you down before you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle’.”

“You do realize,” Russel probed, “that that’s… pretty much exclusive to this god-forsaken house, right? I mean, most people don’t have to deal with the supernatural in their living space. Maybe a ghost or two, but not possible portals to otherworld dimensions hiding under the wallpaper.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Murdoc insisted. “They’ll find you. You can’t have muscle in the men down under and expect to not be molested. That’s why 2-D’s been safe.”

“I got attacked by a tentacle once,” 2-D agreed, contemplating the remainder of his joint. “I gave it a cookie an’ called it Herb. It holds my music sheets for me when I play, now.”

“See?” Murdoc said although nothing was at all evident. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He turned to Noodle. “You’ve never had non-consensual trysts with the Elder Gods in the closet, have you, love?”

Noodle sat, blank-faced for several seconds, turning the question over in her head.

“No,” she drawled, dragging the word over her tongue and through a few gutters on its way out.

“Well done.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not convinced,” Russel said. “I mean, I’m convinced cigarettes will eventually kill us all if the tentacle monsters don’t get us first, but there’s no cause and effect pattern between the two. You’re either paranoid or pulling it straight outta your ass, man.”

“Or all…” Murdoc counted quickly on his fingers. “Five. You don’t know that there isn’t a cause and effect pattern ‘cause no studies have been done. The NHS ought to get on that.”

“You should send ‘em a letter,” Russel advised, keeping a straight face. “I’m sure they’d like to hear from you.”

“I will,” Murdoc told him. “Tomorrow. Can’t be arsed to go through the closet again tonight.”

“You know what?” Noodle said. “All this talk of tentacles has made me… tired. I think I’ll shower and turn in.”

“‘Night, baby girl,” Russel said.

“‘Night, Noodle,” 2-D echoed.

“You do that, love.” Murdoc raised his whiskey bottle in farewell as she waved to them from the doorway and disappeared around the corner.

“So,” he continued, turning back to the others, “those are the dangers of cigarette smoking in this day and age. But it’s not the worst contender for causes of existential anihilation.”

“No?” Russel said, quirking an eyebrow.

“No. For that, you need beetroot.”

“I’mma have to stop you right there,” Russel told him, rising from his chair. “This one’s gonna need popcorn. I can tell…”


	17. Mystery Meat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Innuendo.

“Industry parties are getting weirder.”

Russel looked up from the canapés, eyebrows raised. If Noodle noticed him, she gave no sign, frowning at the glass she held raised to the light and at the logo-shaped ice cubes that floated within it.

“What’s your basis for comparison?” he said. “Demon hunting? Being a circus freak? Getting swallowed by a whale? Whatever the fuck it was Murdoc was up to after the whole pirate thing?”

“I don’t know,” Noodle admitted. “It’s like… I don’t know. Everyone seems more genuine in some ways, maybe because of the pervasive use of social media making everyone sort of accessible all of the time, but everything is more artificial, too. It’s almost as if… I don’t know. Maybe the genuineness is all an act and everyone is now acting in person rather than in text or carefully touched-up photos. That would be exhausting, I think, so no matter how much people smile, there’s still a sense of plasticky mask about it. Or maybe it’s because advertising is so constant online that we’ve ceased to notice it when it turns up everywhere, and so we have ice cubes in the shapes of sponsor logos and gaudy name cards on the buffet so that you know where all the food has come from rather than tasteful programmes naming the hosts, the performers, and all advertisers in a clean script font.”

“It’s all capitalist propaganda,” Russel informed her. “They want to tempt you with products by rich companies in the hopes that you will feel rich yourself and want to be rich and work harder to produce more that will ultimately come to nothing because you didn’t have enough ready cash to begin with, but, by pursuing the fantasy, you come to believe in it and so won’t criticize those who actually are rich when they become richer even though they had the seed money to buy an excessive amount of capital right from the start and do nothing but exploit the labour of others, especially when none of the products are actually that rich to begin with.” He raised a small sausage on a toothpick. “But, hey… The buffet’s free and all-you-can-eat.”

Noodle squinted at the little piece of meat. “What’s in that thing anyway?”

“This one’s turkey,” Russel told her. “You can tell ‘cause it has real texture and tastes like turkey, which puts it a cut above the supposed Vienna sausages. Actually, it’s the pâté that really worries me.”

“Ugh. Just another reason not to eat meat,” Noodle said, wrinkling her nose. “Not that I trust tofu from just any source either. I’d rather pay a bit more for a respected brand than wonder what kind of coagulants a heavily industrialized process might use.”

“What the fuck has happened to the world when there’s a tofu version of ‘mystery meat’?” Russel joked, but Noodle cast him a dark look. “Oh, pardon me. I did not know tofu was such serious business. That’s one thing about meat. Dietary issues aside, if what’s on your plate is vaguely organic, it’s passable. It’s how sausages get made, after all. Hell, maybe the Vienna sausages are tofu. Anyone not in the know would still eat them and call them meat ‘cause they’re sausage shaped and sausages are just like that.”

“This is a terrible segue,” Noodle said, “but do you have any idea where Murdoc went to? I just realized that I’ve lost track of him and that means some other poor person is dealing with him.”

“Now there’s some mystery meat for you,” Russel said, ignoring Noodle’s glare and scanning the crowd. “Can’t say I know where he’s gone to, but whoever he’s fetched up with can have him. We’re not his babysitters or theirs. They came to an industry party. They knew what they were getting into.”

“At least 2-D’s easy to track.” Noodle turned to look at the far corner where 2-D leaned up against the wall, obviously chatting up someone shorter than him whose features Noodle could not see.

“Yeah,” Russel agreed, “but you don’t need to keep an eye on him either. He can be crass, but he’s genuine.”

“Like turkey sausage versus tofu sausage.”

“ _Alleged_ tofu sausage,” Russel said, grinning, “although that’s one meat mystery I’m happy to leave unsolved.”


	18. Going to the Store

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Some crude humour.

Russel glanced at his phone.

“Better go,” he said. “I need to get the weekly shop in before everything closes.”

“You did the ‘weekly shop’ yesterday,” Noodle pointed out, pausing to address him. Murdoc made a play for escape while she was distracted, but she gave his arm a yank and he switched to pained cussing. “You came back with two large pizzas and a bottle of whiskey.”

“Yeah, well…” Russel shifted his weight nervously. “I got there, and then realized I wasn’t sure what we needed.”

“You didn’t even share!”

“I figured you’d already eaten. Besides, it wasn’t vegetarian.”

“So you didn’t think of me at all!” Noodle accused him.

“Noodle, I can’t breathe…”

Noodle looked back and down at 2-D, straddled face-down on the floor. “Was that a pizza comment? Are you calling me fat?”

“No,” 2-D whined, “but you’re a whole human person an’ you’re sittin’ on me.”

“If you can breathe enough to talk, you’re fine.”

“You keep wigglin’…”

“That’s because Murdoc won’t hold still,” Noodle explained, turning back to tighten her headlock, and then looking up at Russel. “So, yeah. That was rude. Not to mention, you always wander off as soon as there’s any bit of tension. It’s like you don’t even want to spend time with us.”

“I don’t want to get in the way,” Russel explained. “Like, there’s only four of us and I still sometimes feel like a fifth wheel, you know? If I wander off, it’s only ‘cause I don’t want to interrupt the delicate balance of the interaction you got goin’ on.”

“Aww… I’m sorry you feel left out.” Noodle’s brow furrowed with genuine regret and sadness. “There’s nothing going on that you can’t be a part of. We’re just having a little lesson on the appropriateness of touching other people’s things.”

“I just wanted to try your sweater on ‘cause it felt all soft an’ smelled like fresh laundry,” 2-D complained, whimpering as Noodle sat back, applying additional pressure to his upper torso.

“You stretched it all out of shape,” Noodle told him. “Now shut up or I’ll fart on your shoulder blades. I’m not half as mad about that as I am about my lingerie set.”

“It was for promo, I swear,” Murdoc wheezed.

“You put cigarette burns in my négligée. So yeah,” Noodle said to Russel, “you can always just grab some popcorn and come and join me. We can chat while I finish up here.”

“That’s mighty generous,” Russel said, “but as much as I like watching Murdoc get taken down a peg or two, we really do need some stuff. I got a list and everything this time.”

“You got Quorn?”

“I got patties and grounds,” Russel told her, pulling out his phone and calling up the pre-fabricated list he kept on hand in case he needed to duck out of a situation. Patties and grounds were standard. “I think we still have some, but I like to check for sales.”

“I’ve got some patties, but not enough. Can you get both, plus nuggets and deli if there’s any?”

“Gotcha,” he replied, amending his list for future use. “I was gonna grab take-away too. You want something?”

“I’d love some chips!” Noodle said, visibly eager. “I can have them with the nuggets. Unless you go by the chippy with the meatless strips, in which case, I’ll have that.”

“I want chips too!” 2-D called from the floor.

“Rum,” Murdoc gasped. “Whatever’s your pleasure.”

“So, chips all around,” Russel said, “and I’ll stop by the place with the meatless strips just for you.”

“Aww… thank you!” Noodle said. “That’s so sweet!”

“Only the best for you, baby girl,” Russel told her. “Have fun and don’t break the rest of the band while I’m out.”

Noodle raised her hand to offer Russel a little wave, which he acknowledged briefly and beat as swift a retreat as he dared.

The shopping excuse was growing thin. He would need to find another way to escape the band’s general weirdness for an hour or three…


	19. Diner Brawl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four/Five. Canon-typical violence.

“24-hour diners are the closest thing you’ll get to liminal space in town,” Russel said, his voice indicating that he was alert, on a roll, and Prepared to Educate. “You need some serious rural highway roadside nonsense to get any better.”

Noodle looked around diner, its chipped formica counters, scarred glass, and scuffed chrome reflecting the florescent lighting, giving the interior a whitish, overbright, dream-like tinge, and thought Russel might be right. It certainly didn’t _feel_ real.

“No bottles, no dope, I hardly see the point,” Murdoc said, rolling a toothpick around his mouth as he perused a menu. He glanced at 2-D, sitting beside him, slumped up against the wall, half-asleep, and whacked him with the back of his hand. “Wake up, you sorry sod. If I’ve got to sit here all night, you do too.”

“Pie…” 2-D mumbled, jolted awake. “Chips’n’ice cream.”

“Ice cream on your chips?” Noodle said, relatively certain the answer was ‘no’, but one could never tell with 2-D.

2-D blinked at her sleepily.

“Nooooo… I wanna chips an’ pie’n’ice cream,” he said, and then propped his elbow on the table so he could rest his chin on his hand. “Cake…”

“Cake instead of pie?”

“Both.”

“Give him the sugar, it’ll wake him up,” Murdoc said. “Probably. Add a coffee. Get one for me, too. Black.”

“You payin’ for all this?” Russel challenged him. “‘Cause I ain’t coverin’ your sorry ass.”

“I’ll get chips for the table, but you’re on your own for pie,” Noodle said, signalling the server. “Someone else pick up drinks. They’re cheaper,” she added when Murdoc opened his mouth to protest, “so shut your gob.”

“I got drinks,” Russel said. “First round anyway. Two coffees…”

“Tea…” 2-D protested sleepily. Murdoc snorted.

“Two teas,” Noodle prompted.

“One black coffee, two teas, and whatever cola you’ve got on hand,” Russel told the server, who jotted the order down.

“Four chips, billed separately,” Noodle said. The server grunted her acknowledgement and wrote it in with the drinks. Noodle rolled her eyes at Russel, but said nothing. It was too late – or too early – to argue the matter.

“Fuck me,” Murdoc murmured after the server returned to the counter and passed the order through to the kitchen. “The knobs from the pub followed us.”

“Ugh,” Noodle said, tossing a glance over her shoulder. “Of all the places in the city, they had to show up here. I thought we left to lose them.”

“Well, there are only so many places open at this hour,” Russel said. “It’s not so surprising that we ended up at the same one.”

“I told you we should have stayed,” Murdoc said. “They were probably kicked out. We could still be drinking.”

“I don’t know, man,” Russel protested. “You were pushing your luck. If they were kicked out, I don’t think we’d have been far behind.”

The party slid into a booth on the other side of the diner where Murdoc could glare at them, ignoring the warning glances Noodle gave him every now and then.

“Don’t start anything,” Russel warned on her behalf. When Murdoc looked to him with a bitter smile, he added, “I know what you’re like. Just don’t engage. Let the rest of us end the evening in peace or I’ll launch you to the fucking moon.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Murdoc began, but backed off when Noodle reached across the table to lay a hand on his wrist, shaking her her head once to forestall him.

Murdoc rolled the toothpick back over his tongue and acquiesced to her demands, respecting her slightly more than the rest of his bandmates.

His concerns were needless. The band had been spotted by the party and recognized in turn. Two of them wandered over to the booth and leaned up against the back of the seats.

“Oi. What are you lot doing here then?” one of them said, dressed in leather with a rather spiky aesthetic. “I thought we were rid of you.”

“I could say the same, but I rather hoped you’d have been knifed in the back before you got this far,” Murdoc returned. “So which of us has the worst luck, eh?”

“Sounds like you’re wanting a fight,” the man said. “Come at me, then, if you’re man enough.”

Murdoc clucked his tongue and shook his head in mock regret.

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, mate. But y’see, we’re in a fine dining establishment, with chips on the table and love in our hearts. It would be a shame to bring such a jolly evening to an end. Now, why don’t you scurry on back to your mates and order yourselves a heaping bowl of bugger yourselves? I hear it’s quite delightful.”

“Good enough for me,” the man said, looking to his companion. “That good enough for you?”

“Sounds like fighting words to me,” the other replied.

“Right then,” the first man said and grabbed a handful of Murdoc’s shirt.

Murdoc looked ready to retaliate, but rolled his eyes when 2-D woke enough to nudge him.

“You wanna move?” 2-D told him. “I need the toilet.”

“Bloody Hell,” Murdoc groused, scooting his way out of the seat so that 2-D could stand up. He ignored the tough with a fistful of his shirt who hauled him back, even as he started dumbfounded at 2-D.

“You got nothing to say to us?” the man dared. “We got your mate.”

“Pop ‘im if you’re gonna,” 2-D said. “He’s a wanker. I can’t fight ‘cause I been in two car accidents an’ my joints are all funny. I got a knee with that cart’lage thing where it dun stick right anymore an’s all jelly-like.” He put one foot on the seat of the booth to bring his knee above the edge of the table. “You wanna look? Give you collywobbles just to see it…”

The man holding Murdoc looked on the verge of saying something cutting, but his companion bent forward a little, seized by a morbid curiosity.

“No, no…” 2-D murmured dazedly. “You gotta look closer…”

As the man leaned in, 2-D snaked an arm around his neck and yanked it down. Blood gushed from the man’s nose as it connected and he threw himself back violently, clutching at his face, stumbling over a stool as he backed away, and falling to the floor with a crash.

Everyone stared in opened-mouthed shock until Murdoc, the first to recover, drove an elbow into the gut of the man that gripped him, causing him to double-over with a wheeze. Murdoc then slammed his elbow down between the man’s shoulder blades, laying him out, and stepped on his back to prevent a quick recovery.

“Well done,” he told 2-D.

“Well, time to go,” Russel said, digging through his wallet and tossing a better than adequate amount of cash on the table. He nudged Noodle, still wide-eyed and stunned. “Hustle your buns, baby girl.”

“But I still need the toilet,” 2-D complained.

“Hold it. I’d rather be gone when the cops show up.”

“No chance of that,” Murdoc said, nodding across the diner. “The other three are on their way.”

“What’s all this then?” the burliest of the three leather-clad men said as they approached.

2-D leaned over to inspect his leg, and then looked up, dark eyes tear-bright, offering his best hurt puppy expression.

“Your mate got blood on my trousers,” he said and only Murdoc was in position to see the corner of his lip curling with malevolent glee. “Come have a look…”


	20. The Faceless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Additional Notes and Warnings:** Phase Four. Kidnapping and hostage-taking.

There was a new, looming presence in the hall closet.

Russel was not entirely sure how it had got there, but he found it rather disconcerting. It hovered at the back of the closet, in the far corner, its face cast in shadow, saying nothing, never moving. And yet, Russel felt the figure was aware and knew of his presence.

He wondered if it was sent to judge them, keeping silent watch over everything they did. He did not quite dare to approach it, only checked in on it from time to time or if he needed to grab a jacket. He tried spritzing it once or twice with some herbal salt water – all but guaranteed to drive away most supernatural entities – but it did not affect the figure other than to elicit a low, warning noise of displeasure.

He chalked it up to just another strange manifestation of the house’s spirit activity until he caught 2-D coming out of the closet with a set of dirty dishes.

“You takin’ your meals in the dark now?” Russel prodded him.

2-D looked startled, and then sheepish.

“Oh… Just feedin’ him,” he said. “Murdoc thinks it ought to be gruel and black coffee all the way, but I think i’s nicer to have a proper meal.”

“You… feed it?” Russel said, perplexed.

“Well, yeah,” 2-D replied. “You can’t keep a prisoner and not feed him. He’d die!”

Russel could feel the rabbit hole opening up into a canyon.

“Prisoner?”

“Yeah, that writer guy. Din’t Murdoc tell you?” 2-D rolled his eyes at Russel’s confusion. “He dun think he’s getting enough attention in the storylines from our videos, so he abducted one of the writers an’ is holding him hostage. He’s holding him for ransom until the label promises him a better storyline. I dun think they really care though. Murdoc thinks if the label dun cave the writer will and that we should starve him to see how long he lasts, but a’s not right. So I bring food and give him bathroom breaks and take him out in the yard when Murdoc’s not here. I’s a’right ‘cause I keep the taser on him in case I need it and he hasn’t given me no trouble at all. I thought I ought to let him go, maybe, but Murdoc’d go spare, so I haven’t. Maybe I’ll get him a strawberry mousse for tomorrow. They got nice ones at the little shop in town.”

Russel allowed a moment for 2-D’s anxiety-driven story to sink in and then nodded once in commiseration.

“That’s a very nice idea, D,” he said. “Maybe you ought to go get one today though. I don’t think the shop’s open as long tomorrow.”

“No?” 2-D said, uncertain. “Maybe you’re right. Murdoc’ll probably be back before me though. Dun tell him I’d been feeding the writer, a’right?”

“No problem,” Russel assured 2-D and then waited until the singer was well and way before making his way to the back of the closet and working the coil of rope wrapped around his torso off the hook fastened into the wall. Russel thought he recognized the man once he was out in the light, but secreted away in the back of the closet as he was, with his face cast in shadow…

“Sorry about the squirt bottle, man,” Russel said, dusting him off.

“Understandable,” the prisoner replied, somewhat shaken, as he removed his gag.

“Sorry about Murdoc, too.”

“Bit of a prick isn’t he?”

“You got that right,” Russel agreed. “Just remember that if you ever get the urge to noise this around. “I’ll set 2-D right, but I’m not gonna bring it up with Murdoc if I don’t have to. He’ll likely forget the whole thing if nothing reminds him. Otherwise, he’ll probably try again and you’ll end up in the oubliette.

“Oubliette?”

“It has tentacles.”

“Blimey,” the writer muttered as Russel lit his cigarette. “The madman ought to be in jail…”


	21. Dark Lord on Life Support

“Why aren’t you dead yet?”

Murdoc tossed back the last of his whiskey, slammed the glass down, and then grimaced at the bottle as though its failure to pour more of the golden liquid into his glass was a personal slight and not the reasonable consequence of his having drunk the lot.

“For the pleasure of tormenting you,” he said, forsaking the bottle to light a cigarette. “I have made deals with three different demons to sustain my soul in this life, and five more for cold, hard cash. I am functionally immortal.”

“I meant you should cut back on the drinking,” Russel said, “but do go on.”

“I plan to outlive you all, and animate your desiccated corpses to continue making music,” Murdoc informed him.

“Unless the demons get antsy and take an early cut.”

“Not a chance, mate. I’ve made arrangements for a life-extending support system. If all else fails, my consciousness is to be uploaded into the ether where I will possess your cell phones until you do my bidding.”

“Oh, is that all,” Russel returned, grinning and raising a hand to Noodle as she entered the kitchen and walked to the fridge. “I’ve done the possession thing. I can chuck a cell phone.”

“What are we talking about?” Noodle said and took a drink from the orange juice container.

“First of all,” Russel told her, “get a glass. I’d like to think we have some sort of class around here. Secondly,” he jerked a thumb in Murdoc’s direction, “I commented on his poor life choices and now he’s treating us to his plans for the future.”

“I intend to be your lord and master until the heat death of the universe,” Murdoc agreed as Noodle took a glass from the cupboard, filled it, put it in the fridge, and resumed drinking from the carton. “I will, of course, need ‘round the clock IV alcohol drip and bedpan service.”

“Ew, no,” Noodle said, ignoring Russel’s look of exasperation. “I’m pulling the plug.”

“Impossible,” Murdoc told her, jabbing his cigarette in her direction. “Everything is laid out clearly in my will. Failure to comply will incur heavy penalties and daily ball-washing service.”

“You’d have to be dead for your will to come into effect,” Noodle reminded him, unimpressed.

“You will serve my preserved corpse hand and foot as I supervise from the ether.”

“How much _did_ you drink?” Noodle said as 2-D wandered in.

“I will control the studio equipment from the afterlife. There is nothing you can do to stop me.”

“Are you talkin’ about your will again?” 2-D said, fetching a beer and popping the cap.

“Submit to me now and I will be lenient.”

“I told you, you can’t do it. No one can upload your brain anywhere. I’s just ‘cause you got high an’ played video games that one time.”

“I wasn’t that high.”

“You tried to shag the toaster.”

“To be fair,” Russel interjected, “he tried to do that last week, stone cold sober.”

“Too right,” Murdoc agreed, standing up and stretching. “Mark my words, you’ll all regret your lack of respect. I’m off to get another bottle. We’re running low.”

“Come back with curry!” Noodle called after him as Murdoc left the room, flipping her the finger.

“He really went there, huh?” Russel said when Murdoc was well out of earshot.

“Yeah,” 2-D said. “He even showed me. ‘Course you can’t really do all that. Not as things are.”

“And the way innovation gets stifled, I don’t see technology catching up,” Russel said.

“Oh, dun worry about stuff like that,” 2-D said, taking a pull from the bottle.

“Well, it’s kind of central to the theme,” Noodle said, eying the juice level in her carton.

“Maybe,” 2-D allowed, a sinister smile spreading over his face, “but i’s easier to just get him high again an’ change it.”


	22. Sprouting Ears

“Nice look. Going to the club?”

Noodle looked over her shoulder at Russel, who leaned against the bathroom’s door jamb, and grinned.

“Yes,” she said. “And thanks!”

“Is there a costume party?”

Noodle laughed, knowing Russel’s comment was a tease, but one with genuine curiosity.

“No, I just felt like being silly. I know I’ll be fulfilling _somebody’s_ weird stereotype fetish,” she said, checking the mirror and adjusting the set of her headband, “but, well… Sometimes I just want to be _cute_ , you know?”

“You’re always cute to me.”

“Aww… Thanks.” Noodle put on her best bashful act and then winked. “Not really the cute I’m aiming for though.”

“I know, but it’s still true.”

“Ha!”

“But really… what fetish are you fulfilling? I’m old, baby girl. The ways of the youth confuse me.”

“Well…” Noodle leaned in close to the mirror to fix her hair around the headband and tweaked the soft, fuzzy, cat-like ears it supported, “It’s hardly a _new_ thing. More an interest thing. I don’t watch a lot of anime, but I did watch some, especially growing up around Kong, because I could download episodes in Japanese and it felt very nice and familiar. In some series, especially comedies, a character’s personality or state of mind was often signalled by having their art style change to something even cartoonier than usual. Sometimes they would sprout animal traits, like ears, a tail, and a particular expression. A person suddenly getting cat traits could mean high energy or a strongly expressed emotion and because of this they… ah… often show up in shows that are _definitely_ not for kids.”

She laughed at Russel’s frown of disapproval.

“I didn’t learn about that until later,” she assured him. “Don’t worry. Of course that means that dressing like this is a bit of a risk, and I’m sure I’m pressing _someone’s_ buttons, but I can handle anyone who gets too frisky.”

It was an understatement, but the reminder seemed to mollify Russel somewhat.

“Just make sure to give us a call if you need any help,” he told her. “You might have the hand-to-hand combat down, but not every situation can be solved with violence.”

“What violence?”

2-D ducked his head around the corner, followed quickly by the rest of him. His expression brightened when he saw Noodle’s outfit.

“You’re a kitty!” he declared.

“Yes,” Noodle told him, laughing.

“A nekkie!”

“No,” she said, trying to rein her laughter back in. “It’s _nekomimi_ , but 'kitty' is fine. You don’t need to use Japanese.”

“But i’s fun. I just dun remember it all…”

“It’s fine,” Noodle reassured him. “English is fine.”

“You look like that show with the girl we used to get on the internet, but, like, a black cat instead of a white one,” 2-D informed her earnestly. “She was only a cat sometimes. Like, when she got ice creams. I like ice cream, but I dun think I’d be a cat. Cats are geckos.”

“ _Genki_ ,” she corrected him gently. “And no, you are not energetic enough to be genki, so you might not be a cat. But you are very helpful and cheerful and loyal. You’d be more like… oh… a dog.”

“There was a dog character too,” 2-D agreed. “I like dogs. I had a dog.”

“I know! You told me about him!”

“If I had ears like yours, I’d be a dog.”

“Do you want ears?” Noodle said, glaring at Russel, who looked thoughtful and on the verge of voicing an opinion. “I can ask the person who made mine if she would make dog ears. Do you like dog ears that stick up or ones that flop down?

“Pointy ears wouldn’t muss my hair,” 2-D said, “but…”

“But?”

2-D dropped his voice. “But I kinda like floppy ears.”

“I’ll ask for floppy ears then,” Noodle told him, continuing to eye Russel, who was biting his lip. “You don’t have to wear them out. You can just wear them at home. Then it won’t matter if they muss your hair. I don’t wear mine all the time. Just once in a while when I go to the club where it’s dark and people are mostly dancing.”

“A’right,” 2-D said, looking cheered. “I was gonna get something from my room though, so I gotta go. I hope you have fun at the club.”

“I will,” Noodle told him, letting him hug her briefly before he vanished down the hall.

She cast Russel a critical look.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Oh, come on…”

“Don’t you even dare!”

“You can say it,” Russel said. “Dog characters are dumbasses.”

Noodle glared at him a while longer, just on principle.

“ _Some_ times,” she allowed.

“Yeah, well… If you get him ears don’t let him wear them to the club,” Russel told her. “I get the feeling he’d draw a crowd he couldn’t handle.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Noodle said cryptically. “You don’t give him enough credit.”

“Well I ain’t ‘genki’ enough to be a cat and I sure as hell ain’t cheerful enough to be a dog,” Russel mused. “What kind of animal would you give me?”

“I don’t know,” Noodle admitted. “I don’t remember any characters except the most extreme ones getting animal traits. Unless it was a show about animals to begin with, I mean. Dogs and cats were pretty standard. I think there were foxes too, which could be good or bad, but were mostly for sly, sneaky characters. Not something I can see you being. Murdoc, maybe, but not you.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Russel told her, grinning. “But if Murdoc’s a fox, it’s only ‘cause you didn’t have skunks.”


End file.
